


When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like nails

by Kablautsch



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (anger), 5 inns, Feelings Realization, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Geralt's perspective and very introspective, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Potions, Scent Kink, Sleep Deprivation, Witcher Senses, feels only 1 emotion, several plot scenes as pure buil-up for p0rn, until he doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kablautsch/pseuds/Kablautsch
Summary: The only way Geralt knows how to get people to listen to him is through anger and violence. So he does the same with Jaskier. It's always "Don't touch that!", "Stay out of my way!" and "Shut up!". Except it never works on the bard who seems hell-bent on disobeying each of Geralt's requests (read: orders). And it's Yennefer of all people who gets him hooked on the idea of trying positive reinforcement instead.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 1117





	When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like nails

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the song "A Hammer" by Kate Tempest

  1. **"Don't touch that"**




It was a quiet night. Geralt could hear next to nothing but the sound of the crackling fire and the distant sounds of life in the looming forest around him. It seemed as though Geralt was able to enjoy a rare moment of peace. There was nothing but him and the Path and the steady beat of Roaches' heart. There was no oil in his hair, no finesse in the way he sat and no audience he felt as though he had to perform for as somewhat more of a human. His well-adjusted eyes scanned the line of the trees and saw nothing but ordinary, peaceful thicket. The sky was speckled with thousands of stars. Geralt wants to turn up his face and get lost in the smattering of lights above his brow. He heaves in a breath almost as fresh as sleep; a breath of relief.

His peace is ultimately broken - no, shattered like an antique vase on stone floor - when the forest decides to spit out Jaskier who stumbles into the ring of light looking more than a little disheveled. Geralt fights with the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and instead fixes the bard with a scrutinizing stare.

"Ah! Geralt", Jaskier exclaimes halfheartedly, sounding winded, "Of course _you're_ here."

Geralt's brow furrows automatically at the sarcastic tone of Jaskier's voice and he breathes in. The first whiff of scent that wafts into his direction could easily be mistaken as fear, but it quickly turns out to be a mingle of nervousness, excitement and annoyance. He tries to hang onto that last scent and tries to push it into his own chest, tries to block out whatever else he might feel at the underlying familiar smell of pine and cedar and pure Jaskier. It's been a month since he's last seen him and he hates to notice that it used to bother him more whenever they were reunited.

"He opts for silence, how original", Jaskier huffs and props one hand on his hip, "Somehow I never stop expecting you to change, you know? How long has it been? Three weeks and something?"

Three weeks and four days, Geralt thinks but says nothing. He knows from Jaskier's tone that it was one of those questions he wasn't supposed to answer. He feels himself shift back into the learned rules of human interaction and rolls his shoulders with it, before he can find his voice.

"What are you doing here, Jaskier?", he asks and it's still more of a growl from somewhere deep within his chest than it is a question.

Jaskier throws the hand that had been resting on his hip out into the air in exasperation. "You know", he says, still struggling to regain his breathing, "Wandering and such... as one does, around here."

In that moment, Geralt is eternally grateful that they are alone. Because it is only then that he notices Jaskier's other hand that is holding a delicate looking pink flower in full bloom. His fingertips are already pink where he is holding onto the sharp little stem. If Vesemir (or Lambert, or Eskel for that matter) had seen that he had been so caught up in seeing Jaskier again after three weeks and four days and making sure to be presentable-Geralt before speaking, that he didn't notice the flower immediately... Well he would never live it down. His reaction now that he has spotted it, is thankfully swifter. He rises from his spot in front of the camp fire and reaches Jaskier in three long strides. He slaps the flower out of Jaskier's hand.

"Hey!", he immediately complains, "You brute! Not even speaking to me and then all but ruining-"

"Don't touch that", Geralt hisses through his teeth and smacks Jaskier's arm when he goes to pick the flower up.

The annoyance that drifts off of Jaskier becomes stronger. Geralt wrinkles his nose before he can stop himself.

"I know you don't particularly care for the finer things in life, Geralt, but some of us have eyes and ears and we like to appreciate what this world has to offer!", he snaps indignantly, "It was a beautiful night and I had rather been enjoying those flowers that grow in the clearing not far from here and I though to myself; now that is something deserving of a ballad in its own right and you-" He stabs a finger into Geralt's face in a move that he supposes is meant to intimidate him. "You have absolutely no right in interfering with my profession, seen as you never allow me to-"

"Jaskier", Geralt warns because as he rambles, his foot shuffles closer to where the pink little petals have landed.

"Fine!", Jaskier interrupts himself and takes a step back, "I won't touch it then."

Geralt sighs loudly and gives Jaskier a disbelieving stare. Jaskier has his arms crossed in front of his chest and his bottom lip is jutted out in an expression that he never admits is a pout. The corner of Geralt's mouth almost twitches.

"Don't touch it", he repeats, bares his teeth around the words to get his point across.

Jaskier sighs in what sounds like defeat and rolls his eyes. "Would I ever lie to you?", he asks.

Geralt tries very hard to ignore the little pang in the cavity of his chest at Jaskier's unguarded expression. With a huff and the firm decision not to dignify him with a response, he turns around to walk back to what had been a cozy spot by the fire. Halfway there, the sound of clothes rustling makes him whip back around.

It takes him even less time now, to hurl himself back and close his hand around Jaskier's slender wrist and push until he yelps and lets go of the flower. Pain flashes across the bard's face, but Geralt has a hard time honing in his strength.

"Ouch - Geralt!", even more annoyance now, "Gods, what are you doing? You act as though it's poisonous-"

Geralt leans in close, until he can see the flecks of grey in the cornflower blue of Jaskier's eyes, and makes sure his anger shows in his own eyes before he speaks again.

"It is", he barks and forcefully pushed Jaskier backwards who stumbles and barely rights his footing to avoid a fall.

"Oh."

This time, Geralt grinds the flower into the wet earth with his heel until not much of it is left. Then he turns around and stalks to his saddle bags, his shoulders stiff as he moves. The forest grows silent again as he rummages for a moment, but he hears the frantic staccato of Jaskier's heartbeat over Roaches'. His mare seems unbothered by their exchange and just snuffles at the grass by her hooves. When he turns back, Jaskier is still rooted in the spot and gapes. Geralt throws him a small glass vial. Jaskier catches and stares.

"The antidote", Geralt supplies.

Jaskier drinks it in one go. When Geralt sits back down in front of the fire and Jaskier joins him, he hopes for a moment that the forest will fall silent once more.

"Honestly, what were you thinking? If you would have just told me from the beginning, I would have dropped it right then and there, Geralt. I know you may find it hard to believe, but I do not in fact have a death wish and I would really, really appreciate if you..."

He's mistaken of course. Geralt doesn't stop the sigh that rattles in his throat and points into the vague direction of Jaskier's fingers.

"Fingertips already turned pink", he says, "Doesn't take long after that."

I had to act quickly, goes unsaid. And maybe so does: Sometimes I forget how to act like a person.

He doesn't smell annoyance on Jaskier anymore, just smells pine and a lingering scent of blowball of the antidote.

"Well I guess running into you tonight, out of all nights, is another appearance of my never-ending streak of luck", Jaskier says, all smiles and stretches out his legs in front of the fire. He doesn't even chance a look at his almost-poisened hand.

"Quite the opposite", Geralt says under his breath.

"Oh, unlucky for you, you mean?", of course Jaskier had heard him, "Good for you that I'm in a forgiving mood tonight, seen as you technically just saved my life."

"Hm."

"What kind of flower was it?", he asks immediately and turns to Geralt. The ember of the fire glints in his eyes. "I don't need to hold it, after all, to write a ballad about it - if you'll indulge me with your seasoned knowledge."

Geralt sighs and gives Jaskier a pointed stare. The bard smiles at him like he already knows he's about to get exactly what he wants.

  1. **"Stay out of my way"**




If pressed, Geralt wouldn't shy away from calling himself an experienced witcher. He had quite a few decades under his belt and there was hardly a monster that he hadn't fought before. And even though he had been hurt (badly) more than a few times, he trusts nothing more than his abilities. As such, over the years, there were a few things that had become routine to him - like getting rid of a nest of drowners. Especially in the wetlands of Velen there was almost no type of monster as common as drowners or drowned dead. And as such, one might assume that a contract involving a nest of drowners bore little to no danger to Geralt.

"Please, you could take them out with one arm tied behind your back!"

Jaskier seemed to assume the same.

"Flattery won't get you anywhere", Geralt says, shoving his pack into Jaskier's wild gesticulating arms while he hoists his silver sword over his shoulder.

"See?", Jaskier points out urgently, holding out his loaded arms, "I can hold your pack for you while you fight."

"The ground will do just as good", Geralt replies, gives his voice a biting undertone and takes his belongings back into his own hands.

There's a fire burning low in the room they had rented for the night and Jaskier is, as always, itching to accompany him to wherever his contract might lead him. Geralt has been trying to tell him that it isn't going to happen in as many words for the past ten minutes. The drowner nest is close enough to town for Geralt to take action immediately, even though they had just settled down in the inn and it was close to nightfall. If he waited until another villager turned up dead by the lake, he doubted there would be as much pay waiting for him. Jaskier had positioned himself between Geralt and the flimsy wooden door, as if that could stop the witcher. To be fair, Geralt does only swing his pack over his other shoulder and waits for Jaskier to move.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just compare me to a wet piece of swamp and just follow you, yes?"

"No"

"Come on, Geralt!", Jaskier whines and actually stomps his foot, "We've been over this; I need new material for songs!"

Everything was always loud with Jaskier, but his voice more so than everything else. It seems they're always arguing, bickering about something or other and Geralt firmly believes it's entirely Jaskier's stubbornness that keeps bringing these situations about. It has nothing to do with Geralt's conversational skills, let alone his own stubbornness, of course. He looks at Jaskier with a look intense enough to burn parchment. There's something that mixes into Jaskier's scent. They're close enough that Geralt picks up on it without trying, but they're far apart enough for it to be lost in the usual swirl of excitement and giddiness that always somehow float around Geralt's head when he's around Jaskier.

"Right then", Jaskier says at Geralt's lack of verbal rebuke and turns towards the door.

Geralt grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pins him in place. Jaskier splutters a little as the fabric presses against his throat. Jaskier whirls around, his mouth opening in another series of arguments, no doubt. Geralt feels the anger coursing through his veins flare hot.

"Stay out of my way", he roars, loud enough and with enough gravel in his throat that it shuts Jaskier up, who looks stunned for a moment.

He pushes past the bard, whose body weighs nothing against his and barges out of the inn.

When he's outside and halfway in the marshes and doesn't hear any footsteps following after him, he relaxes the line of his shoulders and breathes deeply in preparation of the fight. His hands are already itching for it and he knows that a good place for the fire in his gut will be buried deep in rotting drowner flesh.

It doesn't take him long to wade into the wetter parts of the land surrounding the village and he can easily make out the outline of three drowners, even though by now he has nothing to rely on but the pale moonlight and his own enhanced vision. The silver of his sword sings as he pulls it from its sheath and stalks closer. Drowners may not be the most intelligent monsters, but they sense danger as he draws near and turn their white, hollow eyes on him with a gurgle.

He traces a semi-circle, his sword pointed towards webbed feet and waits for them to jump. Then he's spinning away from sharp claws and slicing through heavy flesh; the first drowner's blood splattering over the side of his armor and into the length of his hair. The stink of monster guts invades his nostrils and he turns his disgust into action as he plunges his sword toward the next drowner. Two others rise from the water and a third stars sprinting towards him.

To the onlooker, what follows, may seem like an uncoordinated flailing of clawed limbs and flashing of silver. But Geralt's every move is calculated. He gets lost in the dance of his footwork as he sidesteps the water and keeps on solid ground, feints and dodges, until there are five mangled bodies laying on the ground.

His breath comes steadily, albeit a bit heavier than usual and monster blood runs off his blade in a thick, dark red river. The leather of his armor has suffered a few scratches, but the worst part is probably the gunk stuck in his hair. As he wipes his sword on his breeches, he hears the distinct sound of a boot squelching in mud. Geralt whips up his gaze and angles his sword-

Jaskier is buried knee-deep in swamp, a look of disgust on his face and his hands held high to protect his songbook. Geralt releases a breath and sheathes his sword, but the adrenaline of the fight is still burning through him with an intensity that the situation really doesn't warrant.

"Jaskier!", he barks, before he can examine his body's reaction too closely, "I told you to stay at the inn."

The little shit doesn't even have the decency to look caught. Instead he puffs a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and wobbly pulls his now mud-caked leg free.

"Ah, but Geralt", he says, smile smug on his face, "You told me to stay out of your way. And that, if I may say so myself, I accomplished splendidly."

The leather of Geralt's gloves squeaks as he curls his hands into tight fists and grits his teeth against Jaskier's stupidity. He doesn't bother with a knife and rips out two drowner tongues with his hands, before walking towards where Jaskier was standing - waiting for Geralt.

"Alright, gross", he says, pulling another face, as the witcher gets closer, "You should really watch out for your hair more, you know, it's quite-"

In a flash, he's in the bard's face, letting the heat he feels all over his body burn through him. He hates how Jaskier speaks as though there is no thought on his mind on all the things that could have happened if Geralt had lost focus for even a second. There is a reason drowners are called drowners after all. He breathes in and smells not a shred of fear on Jaskier. It makes the heat run even hotter.

"You. Are. An. Idiot", he spits -even though he's not quite sure if it's directed at himself or Jaskier- and shoves his pack into waiting arms.

"I'll be waiting for you to say that when my new ballad showers us in coin, ale and freshly baked potatoes", Jaskier calls after him as Geralt takes powerful strides back towards the village. "Who am I kidding, he's probably still going to call me an idiot", he mutters to himself, before shouting "Hey, Geralt, wait for me!" and hurrying after the retreating witcher.

  1. **"Shut up"**




When one lives as long as Geralt, one starts losing count. He's long lost count of the amount of inns he's been in, the amount of ale that has passed through his throat and the amount of living things he's buried his sword into. More recently, he's also lost count of the amount of days he's been awake for. It's not a good look on him, he knows. But he's been alone on the Path for weeks and he's stumbled from contract to contract in the feeble hopes of gathering enough coin to get through the winter at least half-alive. Of course, Jaskier had chosen this exact moment, when he is more feral than anything else, to insert himself back into Geralt's life with all the usual flourish.

"Your hair", was the first thing the bard had said, with an expression that betrayed true pain at the sight, when they had run into each other on the road to Oxenfurt.

Geralt, having no energy in his body to spare, had said nothing.

"If you do not come with me right now to have a proper bath, I'll have you arrested for public indecency", Jaskier had threatened.

He blames it entirely on the haze of sleep deprivation that he had then actually followed Jaskier into the nearest inn. The day has long passed into night and most people gathered around the room are drowning themselves in ale.

"Drinks", Geralt rumbles. Anything really, to lessen the throb in his legs and the dull pain behind his temples just a little.

"Your mind is a breeding ground for wonderful and lovely ideas, have I ever told you that?", Jaskier says with a smile so bright it makes Geralt squint.

The next second, Jaskier's rolling his eyes and saying "Don't give me that look" and Geralt's sleep-muddled brain has a hard time keeping up with the constant shifts in his expression. He frowns.

"Alright", Jaskier sighs, "Just sit right here and keep that look on your face and let me handle the human interaction."

Suddenly his back collides with the wall and he slides down on a bench in a hidden corner of the inn that holds nothing but this one table. He really should be more worried about how he didn't even notice how Jaskier had moved him here, but he's too busy reveling in the comfort of sitting down and leaning back against solid wood. His eyes lazily follow Jaskier's shape as he moves gracefully through the sea of people to get to the bar. Candles bleeding wax onto the tables cast the room in an orange glow and makes Geralt's body even hazier with warmth. He's happy to let Jaskier do the talking with a rather disgruntled looking inkeep.

He blinks and Jaskier is back, plopping down across from him with two foaming mugs of ale in his hands. For a moment, Geralt assesses him. He never asked how old Jaskier is, seen as it's not something he liked to think about, but he can guess that he was only just leaving boyhood behind when they had met in Posada. By now, he must be in his late twenties. Geralt can see it in the prominence of his cheekbones, the firmness in the set of his shoulders and the lute-inflicted calluses on his hands. All of these things are by now also familiar to Geralt and he notes with something like content that he bard looks better fed than the last time he had seen him. His hair had grown just a little too and was curling defiantly behind his ears.

"They don't seem to keen on...", Jaskier starts but then cuts himself off with a smile and sets down one of the mugs between Geralt's hands resting on the table. "How have you been?", he asks instead.

"Busy", Geralt grunts, takes a sip, "Work."

"You certainly look like a bunch of goons have dragged you through the dirt", Jaskier says and smiles amusedly over the brim of his mug.

Geralt isn't quite sure what he's trying to convey with the following gesture and he doesn't quite have the energy to lift his hand off the table, but he sort of turns his palm to point at himself with a single finger.

"You're the goon who's dragged you through the mud?", Jaskier translates his gesture, his smile now threatening to split his face in half.

Geralt frowns, quite certain that he hadn't meant that, but he can't come up with anything else to fill the blank. There are shadows dancing on the wall behind Jaskier and he has a hard time focusing on the lines of the other's expression. He drops his gaze to his unmoving hands.

"Geralt, are you alright?", he hears Jaskier's voice float around the periphery of his senses.

"Tired", he mumbles and his eyes droop. With effort, he takes another sip and wills the warmth of the alcohol trickling into his bloodstream will do its job of waking him up a little faster.

Another shadow falls over their table suddenly. Geralt hears Jaskier's sharp intake of breath. He flicks his eyes upwards and sees maybe five men lingering between them and the rest of the inn. An oppressive scent of anxiety and aggression lays in the air and even in his less than capable state, Geralt can guess at the words that are about to be flung at him.

"What's a witcher like you doing in these parts?", one of the men in the front asks snidely, crossing his sun-weathered arms over his chest.

"Good evening, gentlemen", Jaskier answers for him politely, head inclined in greeting, "Me and my helpful companion are merely passing through on our way to Oxenfurt."

One of the men in the back barks out a laugh.

"Companion?", he repeats, "You a freak like 'im?"

"If you are so indelicately referring to the mutations, then I can assure you-"

"Different kind of freak then", the man interrupts Jaskier.

Geralt feels his own posture stiffen in the slightest. Jaskier laughs.

"I guess you could say that", he ends up agreeing with the man.

The baffled expression that it earns the bard quickly fades and the men shift their focus onto Geralt again. Despite his exhaustion, he knows that his gaze burns into the strange man's with an intensity that is unmatched. When their eyes lock, the anxious scent in the air spikes, though Geralt can't bring himself to care.

"I'll ask again", the man presses onward, "What is the butcher of Blaviken doing in this fine village?"

Geralt would probably never admit to it, but he does try to be a good person. He tries very hard to follow social conventions, even though they are very foreign to him and keep changing over the years. He trains his compassion as much as his sword arm and he really does understand, why people meet him with fear and hatred - understands that they want to protect what's theirs. But so does Geralt. Right now, as it stands, he's of half a mind to bash some heads in.

He stares at the man for a second longer than he maybe should and then snaps his eyes to Jaskier.

Jaskier gives a miniscule shake of his head.

Geralt curls the fingers of his right hand inwards experimentally and stretches them out again; ignoring the suspicious raise of Jaskier's brows. He sucks his lips over his teeth before he can instinctively bare them.

"He's trying to enjoy a tankard of ale", Geralt settles on saying, with great difficulty to keep the bite out of his voice.

"You folk better not linger around here, fore your beath sours our ale", the man spits - literally spits in between their boots.

"We'll be on our way at first light", Geralt promises gruffly.

The men slink off, trying to intimidate Geralt by throwing nasty looks towards them until they are out of sight, but seemingly content with having caused a little trouble.

"We?", Jaskier asks, that sly smirk on his face that he always wears when he catches Geralt in one of his slip-ups.

"Shut up", Geralt says, quiet in a way he will not admit to being fond.

Jaskier hides his grind behind his mug and Geralt tries to ignore the painfull pull in his stomach. Despite all his years, there was one thing that Geralt couldn't ever start losing count of. There was only one of them after all.

  1. **"Bullshit"**




It's the last place where he expects to run into Yennefer. Though he guesses that's the nature of his wish. Their bound fate didn't much care for what seemed likely to happen, anyway. Geralt had been riding north for a few days now and he was finally giving in to the temptation of a real bed and a warm bath in some nameless village along the road. The fact that he could smell the rotfiends in the woods long before he stopped by the tiny inn may have helped his decision along.

And now here he was, sitting in the corner of said tiny inn, as one of the only patrons. His back was leaning heavily against the wall behind him and he did little else other than sometimes lazily lift his tankard to his lips. His cloak was wet and his boots filled with drying mud and really, there were more comfortable places he could think of being. But he hadn't really slept in three days and his bones were aching with exhaustion. The room was mostly quiet. There was a couple of weathered-looking farmers playing gwent in another corner of the room and the innkeep was noisily cleaning out tankards, but other than Geralt had peace.

That was, until Yennefer suddenly appeared in front of him. He hadn't even seen her come in. It sent a shiver of subdued fear down his spine. You're slowing down.

"Geralt", her smooth voice rings out, as though honey lines her throat.

"Yennefer", he rasps in response.

"How fares it?", she asks, took his tankard from his loose grip and sipped from his ale. "Tastes like piss", she comments, after cringing at the taste.

"Hm", he agrees.

He looks at her for a moment. She's dressed in a long black skirt, a white, ruffled shirt that is tucked into it and a warm, dark cloak that hangs from her slim shoulders elegantly. There is the usual dark make-up around her eyes and her skin is smooth as ever. Her tongue darts out to lick the last of the ale from the corner of her mouth. Geralt knows that once this would have been enough for him to accept her presence.

"What do you want?", he asks in a slow rumble.

"To know how you are doing", she says with an innocent raise of her brows and busies herself with another sip.

"Bullshit", Geralt insists.

"I see you are travelling alone", she continues, ignoring his eloquent accusation.

Geralt says nothing.

"Doesn't seem to have been long enough for you to miss my company", she says and tilts her head in a way that makes the silky strands of her hair glide over her shoulders.

"Get to the point", he growls and feels his lips pull back over his teeth.

She sighs and straightens suddenly.

"Geralt, when you ask someone to do something, do you always do it by ordering them around and trying to look all wolf-ish or is that just for me?"

Maybe after seven more tankards filled with ale or something stronger, Geralt would be close to admitting that something akin to hurt flashes through him at her words. It is what he had learned. Through years and years of apprehension and scorn, he had learned that the only way people listen to what he has to say is if they believe that danger is imminent. Maybe, he has also forgotten how to do anything other then mimic Vesemir's scowl. Maybe, he doesn't know how to talk with words that aren't hurled. He flexes his hand on the table - a gentler gestures he usually only allows himself when he follows that flash of Yennefer's tongue.

"Just for me then", she assumes wrongly and sighs again, "Listen, sometimes positive reinforcement can really work wonders if someone is to do your bidding."

"Positive reinforcement", he repeats dumbly.

"Yes", she says, slowly, so he can catch up, "Show someone when they did the right thing. Ask, receive, reward. Give them a chance to understand what is being asked of them and why."

"Hm", he grunts. He hates that the gears in his head actually start turning.

"All in a days work", she says, with a smile that seems to be just for herself.

  1. **"Stay"**




It had been weeks since that unpleasant run-in with Yennefer. He was much further north by now. Far enough, that Jaskier had stumbled onto the Path again. It should have been long enough for him to shake what she had said. But, as usual, Yennefer's words weren't easily shaken. The worst part was that he noticed every time now. He felt something zip up his spine whenever he told Jaskier to shut up. Felt it, every time he grunted at a question instead of answering it. Felt it throb behind his temples late at night, when sleep escaped him.

The wolf in him was straining at its leash against the mere thought of what 'positive reinforcement' entailed. If he thought about it for too long, it made him want to take Roach, run into the woods and spend the rest of his life solely in animal company. Roach understood when he barked at her. She nickered and whinnied, but she understood when he was trying to warn her. She didn't get sore with him for days after if he hadn't picked out the tone of his bark carefully enough. She truly was the better easier travel companion.

It has been established that Geralt would never admit to being afraid, but there was a part of him that stared at his own hands for too long and wondered if they were even able to perform such human actions as comfort or reassurance.

Most days, he manages to push all of that away and fill his chest with annoyance instead. The main reason why Yennefer's 'suggestion' has stuck for him with so long is because it might offer him a way to get Jaskier to do what he wants. If it would stop the bard from running after him during every single hunt, and put his hands and mouth were they weren't supposed to be - then maybe it was worth a shot. The amount of trouble Jaskier wouldn't get into anymore if he only listened to Geralt, Geralt told himself, would grant him enough peace to get through the mortifying ordeal of 'positive reinforcement'. 

His chance to truly put his theory to the test comes sooner than he may have liked.

It had been easy, the past few days of travelling with Jaskier. It always is when he hasn't seen him a while, Geralt has no contract and they're alone on the road. He doesn't like to admit that he enjoys listening to Jaskier talk, but he does. And sometimes, he even enjoys the singing.

But of course, the small luxuries of road-side travel can't last forever and Geralt takes a contract for a leshen in Benek. They reach the village by dusk and spot the inn easily; it's the largest out of five buildings. Geralt ties Roach up by the notice boards and she nibbles at the daisies sprouting next to it.

"Poor Roach", Jaskier laments and produces a sugar cube from deep withing his doublet, "Left out in the harsh weather like this."

"Don't feed her that", Geralt says, but her head was already happily bobbing back and forth after nicking the treat.

Jaskier shoots him an innocent look over the saddle and Geralt grinds his teeth so hard he hears them crunch.

"It's bad for her teeth", he murmurs.

"You really are no fun", Jaskier admonishes, but bumps his shoulder against Geralt's as he starts to make his way towards the inn.

Geralt follows and tries to roll the tension from his shoulders. He breathes in the crisp spring air mindfully, before he steps foot into the over-saturated inn. As soon as the door falls closed behind him, his delicate senses wince at the array of impressions storming in on them. The smell of beer, mud, mold, piss and sweat mingle unpleasantly in the small room. The wood of the floorboards has taken one too many stains and is burst and splintered at almost every turn. The tables and benches are mismatched, smelling of different trees and different ages. The fire roaring in the hearth off to the right side of the room casts long shadows on everything else and Geralt's eyes struggle to adjust to the too-bright and too-dark spots in his vision. With a quick headcount, he estimates that almost the entire village is packed into the inn and the room is bursting with the noise of conversation buzzing everywhere.

Jaskier looks back at him for a fleeting moment and Geralt can already see a familiar glint in his eyes and his hands immediately reaching for his lute. Geralt hangs back to the side with the hood of his cloak drawn over his hair as Jaskier chats up the inkeep and drops a few clinking coins onto the bar. It's with easy routine that Jaskier slips Geralt the key to the room - Geralt's sensitive hearing of course having picked up the entire exchange - and brushes past him to start tuning his lute on a stool in the middle of the ruckus. For all that Geralt complains about the other's chatter, they've fallen so in sync that by now, words are barely necessary. For a while, Geralt stands there somewhat near to the bar, arms hanging uselessly from his sides. His senses are still going haywire as he struggles between wanting to retreat to their room and staying to watch Jaskier perform.

He settles on the former and takes the rickety stairs with broad steps. The room at the end of the hall is sparsely furnished, as expected, with nothing but a bed, a table and a chair. Geralt drops his pack unceremoniously, tugs off his cloak and starts sharpening his silver sword. For a long while he relishes in focusing on the sound of the whetstone against the blade and Jaskier's music sounding from beneath the floorboards. Then, he methodically begins to coat the sword in relic oil in preparation for the fight with the leshen.

Geralt gets lost in the calming familiarity of the tasks as he also readies his armor meticulously. He's lost enough that Jaskier's rather loud entrance into the room makes his head snap up from where he was bowed over the chest piece of his armor.

"Oof", the bard sighs, looking breathless and sweaty, "Decent crowd tonight, I must say. I've had better, but well, for a tiny inn in the middle of no-man's land I guess you could say these lovely people really have honed their taste."

Jaskier props his lute up by the wall and runs a hand through his hair that has started to curl around his ears. Geralt notices that the laces of his shirt are slightly undone.

"Hm", he says.

"Yes, they were lovely! Simple folk as they may, they can show an appreciation even for things that may seem strange to them. We might have a rather profitable time here", Jaskier prattles on as he walks up to the table that Geralt has claimed for his preparations and throws a full sack of coin at him.

Geralt catches it with ease and weighs it comfortably in his hand.

"Not bad", he agrees.

Jaskier is still breathing heavily as he throws off his outer doublet, leaving him in a white linen shirt and red satin pants. He furrows his brows as he sees Geralt continuing to shine his armor.

"You look about ready to go", he comments, "Shouldn't you sleep first?"

"Don't need to", Geralt says.

The chair scrapes across the floor as he gets up and starts getting into the heavy leather ensemble. Jaskier puts his hands on his hips.

"What's a leshen anyway? Some sort of fiend?", Jaskier asks, clearly going for conversational but Geralt picks up a hint of defiance in his tone.

He sighs. "Close", he rumbles, "They're forest relics, very territorial, able to control animals and nature around them."

Whatever Jaskier expected as an answer, this doesn't seem to satisfy him.

"That doesn't sound very easy to fight", he points out and juts out his chin.

Geralt shrugs: "Had worse."

"Yes, yes", Jaskier rolls his eyes, "You've always had worse. That's not the point. The point is that I would very much like to sleep after performing my heart out and quite frankly-"

"Nothing stopping you", says Geralt easily as he steps into his boots.

Jaskier again, seems clearly not pleased by that response, but steps closer to Geralt and smacks his hands away to fasten the many buckles of the chest piece himself. Geralt lets him.

"If you seriously think I'm going to let you go alone, then you're even dafter than I thought", Jaskier says.

"Hm", Geralt says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, does my opinion amuse you?", Jaskier asks and throws him a look that Geralt can't quite place from underneath his lashes, "Anyway, I'm coming with you and that's the end of this very one-sided discussion. I've never seen a leshen and if I had to leave this world tomorrow it would be a shame if I had missed the opportunity to see one - up close and personal. Plus writing ballads comes much easier if the event is actually real and not just a second-hand tale."

Geralt feels his muscles coiling already. He clicks his tongue and forces himself to stay still as he runs hot with anger. He knows this response is coming though, knew it from the moment that the bard had stepped into the room and he manages to hold back the words that are piling up in his throat. Abruptly, he steps away from Jaskier whose hands hang in the air after just having pulled the last buckle tight and busies himself with securing his sword on his back. Jaskier takes a step back as well, towards the door and thus putting his body in between Geralt and the way out again.

"Why do I get the impression that I'm going to have to sneak out after you again?", Jaskier says, jokingly - teasingly.

Geralt can't stop the growl that reverberates in his chest and maybe he shoots Jaskier a sharp look that has the bard looking unimpressed. It's the moment where the scent of annoyance starts clinging to the corners of Geralt's perception.

"How many more times are we going to have to go through this until it finally makes a home in your thick skull, Geralt", Jaskier's hands find their place on his hips again, "I really don't like being told what to do, especially not when I'm so clearly in the right-"

"Dangerous", Geralt bites out from behind closed teeth and takes a step towards the door.

Jaskier takes a step back with him.

"Of course it's dangerous! I know you are prone to think of me as a fool, but I haven't been following around a witcher for gods' sake, thinking that it would be what? A walk in the park?"

There's dimly subdued anger in Jaskier's eyes too. Geralt really sees it there for the first time and the realization goes through him like a bolt: Anger at each other for not understanding what the other means. In hindsight Geralt feels foolish for it, but he realizes for the first time that though Jaskier might talk a lot, he too might say only the things that come easy to him when the things he means are difficult to get past learned behavior. Positive Reinforcement, he reminds himself.

Geralt takes another step forward and Jaskier follows. He notices too late that Geralt has backed him up into the wall next to the door. He does seem to realize - his cornflower eyes going wide - when his back connects with wood and Geralt rests his fingertips against the wall on either side of Jaskier's head, pinning him in place. Geralt hopes the action is human enough - enough to convey that he's trying to put himself between the bard and the rest of the world.

"Stay", he says, his low voice scraping against the roof of his mouth like gravel. To make up for it, he tries to lift the scowl from his face.

Jaskier's eyes widen even further, though it seems hardly possible, and Geralt tries not to get lost in the ocean of blue and the scent of pine and cedar. This close, he could count the faint freckles that are scattered over the bridge of Jaskier's nose or he could count every beat of his rapid heart by sight alone, where it makes his pulse flutter against the side of his smooth neck. Geralt tries not to stare. 

"How long will you be gone?", Jaskier asks, quietly and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"Hard to say", Geralt says, grimacing with the amount of willpower this takes, "Few hours. Maybe all night."

Jaskier sinks down then, ever so slightly and cocks his head to the side. Soft hair tickles Geralt's arm.

"Give you the story later", Geralt promises.

"No time to lose then", Jaskier says with the smallest of smiles.

"Hm."

And with that, Geralt pushes himself off the wall and out of the room.

* * *

It's late into the night when Geralt steps back into the room. The whole town is asleep; though the inkeep is still there, wiping down tables, but he barely pays the witcher any mind. Geralt assumes it's because he has opted to leave the antlered leshen-head by the stables.

The fight is still coursing through his veins. There's a scratch over the length of his right thigh, where a sprouting root had caught him, but otherwise the only remnants of the fight are the sweat sticking to his skin and the toxicity in his blood.

His boots land heavily on the floor as the door clicks shut behind him. He catches Jaskier pacing around the room in a circle. When he looks up and spots Geralt, he stops in place. Geralt can't tell if it's the air between them or the leftover adrenaline in his veins that makes him taste electricity on the tip of his tongue. As Jaskier stares into his pitch black eyes, Geralt can smell the oppressive anxiety in the room. He gets the stupid urge to turn back and spend the night in the woods.

"Jaskier", he rasps, "Why're you awake?"

"Are you hurt?", Jaskier asks, eyes falling to Geralt's leg.

"Just a scratch", he shrugs.

"You're sure?"

He wants to roll his eyes, but something in Jaskier's eyes stops him.

"Hm", he says instead.

In the split second where the words seem to register to Jaskier, his shoulders droop and he sighs loudly. From one moment to the next the sour scent of fear vanishes and is replaced with relief so suddenly that it punches the air from Geralt's lungs.

"Good", Jaskier whispers.

And _that_ \- the awed, soft tone of Jaskier's voice like clear blue water - does something even worse to Geralt's chest. Every previous argument shoots through his head as everything falls into place. _Jaskier wanted to come along because he was worried about Geralt_. As Geralt thinks it, it's both the easiest and the hardest thing he's ever realized. And just maybe, he realizes too, Jaskier had finally understood why Geralt always asks him to stay.

"Fuck", he says and lets his sword clatter to the ground.

Jaskier rushes towards him immediately. "Geralt? That sounds like pain, I thought you weren't-", his voice hitches in his throat with panic.

Logically, he knows the toxicity must have gone down by now, instead of up, but he feels it pulse through him more heavily than ever. A steady thrum through his body that is trying to catch up with the speed of a normal man's heart. He still doesn't know if his hands are capable of such things, but he decides to try anyway.

"What happened? Do you need-"

Jaskier is close enough that all he has to do is reach out to cradle his head in his hands, fingers slipping through silky brown hair, and lean forward to push his mouth against Jaskier's. It's barely anything but a moment of shared breath and skin pressing together, Geralt having lost all understanding of his body and mind. His eyes are squeezed shut and Jaskier doesn't even make a sound, but he doesn't move away. He feels the tension slip from the slender body in his hands. Geralt is strung like a bow, his breath leaves him in short, loud, painful bursts and he prays to whatever gods might exist that it doesn't make Jaskier pull away, doesn't make him-

"Shhh", he feels Jaskier breathe against his lips, his voice so close he feels it in his own throat, "It's alright."

Geralt growls, bares his teeth against the onslaught of intensity that pulls at him from the middle of his chest. Jaskier kisses him then. And Geralt lets him. He feels much more of it, this time. Jaskier's lips feel too soft to be real, but the sensation of lute-calloused fingers gliding along the stubble on his jaw reminds him that they are. Slowly, the gentle pull of Jaskier's lips and teeth and tongue pull the anger out of Geralt and he dares to wrap his hands around Jaskier's waist with careful movements.

The way that Jaskier kisses him is unhurried, easy. One might mistake him for calm but Geralt can hear his heart thundering in his ribcage, can feel the tremble in his hands as the slide into sliver hair. Geralt thinks he might go a little insane at the feeling. Jaskier is warm and soft in every way that he can be. When Geralt scents the air all he smells is pine, cedar and summer rose mixed with the sweet fragance of affection.

"Jaskier", he grinds out against the pain he feels in his chest, as stone seems to shake loose.

"Geralt", he echoes, breathlessly and god, Geralt thinks, that voice of his.

"Jaskier", he growls again, every other word flying from his mind as he pushes the bard's smaller body back against the wall.

He cages Jaskier against solid wood, following the instinct in him that screams to protect, to keep, to keep him here. Geralt feels a sense of mad posession as he pushes his mouth back against Jaskier's. Raw urgency that has him digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Jaskier's hips maybe a little too harshly. And he hates that control is slipping out of his fingers so easily, but fuck, violence has been stitched into every inch of his hardened skin and Jaskier is so close and so warm and _so_ -

"Please tell me you're not under some spell", Jaskier whispers, even as he pushes his body up against Geralt's desperately.

"Feels like it", he rasps out, because it's true and he really isn't in the state of mind to say more than 3 words, so it's either this or another growl - But it is apparently the wrong thing to say because Jaskier shies away from him when he tries to chase him for another kiss.

"Can a leshen-"

"No", he growls.

Confusion clouds Jaskier's face, his brows furrowed and his teeth burrowed in his red, spit-slick bottom lip. Geralt stares.

"Then why-"

"It hurts", he snarls, "I want to touch you so much it _hurts_."

Cornflower eyes meet still pitch black ones and Jaskier's breathing hitches noticibly.

"Oh", Jaskier says.

Then he doesn't say much of anything because he's too busy kissing Geralt back. He lets his hands slip under Jaskier's white sleepshirt and drags the rough pads of his fingers over the impossibly soft skin of his stomach and through the trail of hair that leads down, down, down into his breeches. The keening sound that Jaskier makes is devestating.

"Gods Jaskier you're so _stupid_ ", he bites out against plush lips.

"Wha-"

"Worrying about a _fucking_ witcher", he says while he starts tearing at the laces of his breeches, "As if I'm not fucking made to kill monsters."

"N-not sure if you know this- ah- but", Jaskier says, voice climbing in octaves beautifully, "monsters are also made to kill- _you_."

When Geralt finally gets Jaskier's breeches halfway open, there's a dull thud as Jaskier's head hits the wall, his throat stretched taught and color high on his cheeks. Geralt thinks he looks devestating like this.

"You're _so_ stupid", he repeats instead and nips sharply at the underside of his jaw.

Jaskier laughs - giggles - and wraps his arms around Geralt's shoulder as he sinks his teeth into the unmarked throat at his disposal. Jaskier's laughter dissovles into a moan. At the sound, Geralt's cock twitches against the warm thigh it's pushed into.

"You're wearing too much", Jaskier suddenly huffs and starts divesting Geralt of his many layers of armor. Piece by piece, the reinforced leather falls to the ground, Geralt doing his best to speed up the process while keeping his mouth firmly latched onto Jaskier's neck.

"Shit, shit _shit_ ", Jaskier curses and slides his hand along Geralt's jawline so he can push his head away long enough to guide his dark undershirt up and off. His hands immediately roam over a scarred chest and Geralt growls as Jaskier manages - effortlessly - to undo him with the simplest touch.

Once Jaskier succeeds in getting a hand down Geralt's trousers and starts stroking languidly, all while his eyes roam all over Geralt's body as if he wants to anchor this moment deep in his memory - in that moment Geralt knows he is absolutely going to lose his mind and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Every sensation is turned up as high as it can go with the potions still running their course. So he feels it in his bones when Jaskier shudders, has never known his scent of summer and flowers and pine and cedar and Jaskier so intimately as he continues sliding his nose and mouth whereever he can reach.

"You sound so pretty, darling", Jaskier tells him. And it's only then that he realizes that he's being loud with it. The realization makes him moan louder still, this time into Jaskier's open mouth. Jaskier seems it a good response to start twisting his wrist on the upstroke. Geralt curses.

His own pleasure is blinding - he doubts it has ever felt this good to have hands on him, but it's Jaskier and Geralt's even too overwhelmed to kiss him anymore, so he just pushed their foreheads together and bumps his nose against Jaskier's. He doesn't need to open his eyes to feel the warmth of Jaskier's smile.

" _Jask_ ", he warns, "'M not gonna last."

"Good", Jaskier replies, all teeth, "I want to see you come."

"With you", Geralt urges and let's his hands find purchase against bare hips and he pulls, pushes, _pulls_ \- until Jaskier's grinding his already slick cock into Geralt's large, fleshy thigh and up into the crook of his hip.

"Fuck Geralt-"

"With me", he reminds, asks, pushes out the words, his chest heaving. "Can you?"

"Fuck, yeah, okay, yeah, fuck, I can-", Jaskier drawls, face scrunching up as if he's in pain, "if you keep saying shit like _that_ , I can."

Jaskier's hand slows, in favor of focusing on the rough roll of his hips, so Geralt starts fucking the tight circle of his fingers. It's ridiculous how close he is and he tries to find the same signs in Jaskier: in the sweat on his brow, the focus in his expression and the desperation in the way he claws at Geralt's hair with his free hand.

He knows his voice is deeper like this, scratchier and if he's truly honest to himself it isn't the first time he noticed that Jaskier liked his voice. The movement of Jaskier's hips is mesmerizing and he digs his fingers deeper into supple skin, snaps his own hips a little faster. He starts with a rumbling growl that has Jaskier's hips stuttering against him, as he gathers up everything in him that wants to give Jaskier what he wants.

"Jask", he manages, like gravel, "c'mon. Want you. Mine. Be mine."

Jaskier moans like he's been punched in the gut and then whines, high and drawn-out and breathless and _breathtaking_ and comes all over Geralt's hips, his leg and his abs. His scent is so intense in Geralt's nose that it absolutely _does not_ wrench a whimper out of him.

Everything is so good with Jaskier still right there in his arms, twisting his wrist again and ghosting his lips over Geralt's cheek, but he's been holding off his orgasm for a while now, to get Jaskier off first and now it's so _difficult_ -

Jaskier - beautiful, clever, observant Jaskier - notices and uses his free hand to cover his fingers in his own come and holds them out in front of Geralt's mouth. What else can he do but pry his lips apart and let Jaskier feed him that scent - of summer rose and cedar and pine. And it's the confidence with which he shoves the sticky digits between sharp canines that does it, like he knows that it's exactly what Geralt wants, what will make him lose it-

So he does. His spend mixes with Jaskier's on his own skin and so do their scents and for a short moment, the air around them spikes with the sweetest smell Geralt knows and he's sure he's in heaven.

Their breaths continue to count out the minutes as they stand there, by the wall, surrounded by heap of clothing and with come cooling on both of their skin. Geralt knows he can't stay here, in the crook of Jaskier's neck, forever, but he doesn't want to _go_ and Jaskier has turned so quiet that maybe-

"Geralt?", he asks then, voice an absolute gorgeous mess.

"Hmm."

"What was that? I mean, I know what it was, I'm not entirely an idiot, but I mean-"

"Positive reinforcement", Geralt rumbles and runs is nose over the side of Jaskier's neck again, let's his teeth follow.

"What?", Jaskier squeaks, around the hitch in his breath. He's already straining up into the touch again. It has Geralt purr out a deep noise of content.

"Thank you for staying here", he explains.

"Geralt!", Jaskier bristles, pushing at Geralt's unyielding chest uselessly, "You utter _ass_! All because of that misguided sense that I'm safer when I'm not around you. I _can_ take care of myself either way, you know?"

"I know", he says and allows himself to be nudged back, so Jaskier can see his wry smile, "Let me do it for you, anyway."

Jaskier sighs and his indignance melts into a look that is entirely too fond, too quickly. Geralt kisses him as gently as he can manage. Then, he rocks his hips forward again, strained muscles rippling and Jaskier hisses out a sharp breath through his teeth.

"Geralt!", he chides.

The grin that Geralt gives him is just the right mixture of feral and smug. Jaskier buries his hands in white hair again and tugs him closer still.

"I'll keep you safe, Jask", Geralt promises against swollen lips. He knows that Jaskier knows that he's not just talking about monsters.

"I know", he says easily, voice as clear, as soothing, as the sea.

"Now though", he burrs, letting his hands fit around the curve of Jaskier's ass, "I'll make you come again."

"Fuck."


End file.
